Page 5 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

‘There, fit for a princess,’ I said as I sat it on her golden-brown hair. Ava beamed, in that way that only very young children do, sticking out their stomachs, chins in the air, eyes alight.

Netta arrived, dark rings under her eyes, hair spilling from under her hat, face shimmering with sweat.

‘Away wid you, Ava. I’m dunnin and I need some tea,’ she said, dropping heavily onto the wooden chair by the table.

‘I’ve got tae deliver this shirt tae Mrs Robertson,’ I retorted, ignoring my sister’s plea. The sudden claustrophobia of hot bodies in close proximity, the noise, gave me no space to think; I had to leave. Quickly I threw the sewing tools back in the drawer and folded the shirt before finding some paper to wrap it in. ‘I need tae go before it’s too late. Duncan can make the tea.’

‘He widdnea how,’ Netta said as he walked into the room.

I picked up my coat and the parcel. ‘Well, now would be a good time tae teach him.’

On the street, I stopped to re-arrange myself. I tried to do up my coat buttons, but my hands were shaking. Instead, I took the coat off, it was too hot and I wasn’t sure why I’d brought it.

With my coat hung over one arm, and the parcel under the other, the walk to New Town should have been soothing and distracting. Spring was having its effect on everyone: women displaying the new season’s fashions, children skipping and laughing without worrying their parents, smiles on every face, brown paper parcels of Saturday afternoon shopping, flowers tentatively blooming, summer hats on their first outing of the year, trimmed with new ribbon. But I couldn’t see any of it, couldn’t appreciate the detail. It was as if I was enclosed in a smudged glass bubble.

In this strange haze, I made my way to Heriot Row and delivered the parcel. But as I reluctantly began to make my way home, that invisible thread started to pull at me, pull me off course and soon I found myself standing in front of Jenners.

Without stopping to admire the window displays, I headed straight for the haberdashery department. Just looking at the lace in the glass counter gave me the sense of stability I needed. The coloured ribbons, the varying widths of elastic, the different sizes of scissors, the pinking shears, measuring tapes and tailor’s chalk and the orderly way in which they were displayed started to make me feel at home, as if I was again in my own skin, in the place that I should be. I fingered a few of the buttons on display, pretending to see if they matched my coat, before stopping at the vast rainbow array of thread. Usually, I would run my finger along the display shelf that the reels lay on and breathe in the faint aroma of the colour. But something was out of place.

‘Can I help you?’ The officious voice made me jump.

‘This spool of thread was in the wrong place; it was with the blues. I was just returning it tae its correct position.’

‘I’m sure I can do that for you.’ The sales girl’s voice was sharp, as she pulled the green thread from my hand.

‘Look,’ I said, putting on my friendliest smile, ‘it should go here, with its green friends.’

She looked me up and down, assessing my sweating face, my slightly rumpled shirt, the skirt, my old shoes. ‘Is there anything else you’d like help with?’ The chirpy question was in contrast to her look of distrust as she returned the spool to its correct home.

I shook my head and quickly walked towards the fabrics hall, annoyed at myself for being so meek, furious that a shopgirl could make me feel so small. I had no more intention of stealing the thread than she did.

But in the fabrics hall, I was quickly able to soothe the red of my cheeks and escape into the great cavern of riches, a huge room on the ground floor of the department store with a top-lit galleried saloon which rose to the full height of the building, throwing the day’s sunlight over an array of colour. The room was busy with ladies poring over fabrics and patterns: a young woman with her mother, disagreeing over how much flesh could be exposed on her proposed new evening gown, an elderly woman matching buttons to a dark fabric, three girlfriends giggling over a selection of silks. The right side of the room was dedicated to an array of mundane cloth: towelling, linens, ticking, muslin and calico, the left side of the room housing the more magnificent fabric: brocaded silks and satin, wool and tweed, chiffon and crepe, organza and taffeta. Down the centre was an ever-changing display of the very finest of the materials, languorously draped to catch the light from above, to snag a passing admirer.

I’d never been in a position to afford these fine fabrics; I’d hardly ever dared look at them. Patting my pocket to check the roll of notes, my anger was quickly forgotten as my eye was caught by a bolt of decorated yellow silk. I pulled it out to look at it more closely, to check the pattern and see where the repeat came in, see how the light affected the weave, understand how the colour changed when the material moved. Standing in front of the nearby mirror, I held the silk up to my body and close to my face. Immediately I realised the colour was all wrong, but as I was putting the yellow material back on the counter, I was distracted by a bright shimmer of blue beside me, a startling colour that drew me greedily towards it.

Pulling out several yards I laid it on the countertop so I could see the true detail. It was a peacock-blue-green silk covered in an occasional repeating pattern of tiny birds, brown flecked with white and orange and some occasional metal thread, the birds’ eyes red and beady, appearing to watch me. Despite the bright colour, there was a gravitas to the fabric that drew me in. The silk appeared to be faultless, not a line or slubbed knot in sight.

Quickly I pulled my notebook and pencil out of my coat pocket and started drawing, working up a design, a dress that would show the cloth to its best advantage. As I drew my heart beat faster, my drawing became hurried.

‘Can I help you?’ A salesgirl, probably the same age as me, interrupted my drawing trance. ‘This is one of our finest silks, imported all the way from India and is hand woven.’ The girl fingered it carefully, envy in her voice.

Wary of the way the previous salesgirl had treated me, I put on my best New Town accent. ‘I’m considering making an evening gown.’ I searched her sallow face for evidence of suspicion.

‘What style?’ Her eyes widened eagerly.

Relieved, I opened my notebook and showed her my sketch. ‘I think I would give it short sleeves and swathe blue chiffon over the bodice. A low neckline would be edged in the same orange and brown as that of the birds. The skirt would be trained and the chiffon over the sleeves puffed. I’d add three tucks above the hem, some fabric-covered buttons to the back of the sash and make a couple of bold star flowers in the orange and brown and add one to the sash, another to the swathed chiffon.’

She wriggled with excitement. ‘I’ve got just the right colour of organza for the edging, and we’ve recently had a new delivery of chiffons; I’m sure we can find the right colour to complement this blue.’

We both leaned forwards to get a better look, both carefully running our hands over the pattern. As we did this the girl became quiet, looking at my hands next door to her own, mine red and raw, slightly swollen, one of my fingernails ripped, hers pale and smooth, thin and elegant with neatly clipped nails. I felt a sudden rush of shame, that feeling when everything shrinks, your heart contracts, even your skin seems to shrivel.

‘Can you afford this fabric?’ she whispered to me, her face reddening.

I should have been grateful for her discretion, but the shame masked everything. My face blazed as I struggled to find the roll of money in my pocket. ‘Aye, I… of course I can,’ I stuttered loudly, drawing attention to myself. ‘Look. I have more than enough money.’ I thrust the roll of five-pound notes at her and as I did this they fell to the floor. Dropping my notebook, I scrambled to pick them up.

The girl fell to her knees to help me pick up the money, carefully piling up the notes, straightening them and then rolling them back up before handing them to me. ‘Here. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…’ Her blush was deeper than mine.

We both stood up to disapproving stares and whispering amongst the women close to us.

‘Why don’t I go to the haberdashery department and get you some half-inch buttons for covering with fabric, some blue threads for us to match to the material, and maybe some orange ribbon? And whilst I’m doing that perhaps you’d like to look at our range of chiffons,’ the girl said loudly, pointing towards the rolls of fabric. Suddenly she winked at me, threw me a conspiratorial smile before trotting out of the room.

I straightened myself up and looked around. The women began turning away, back to their own business, but anger began to bubble up inside me, incomprehensible, irrational anger. The girl had tried to be discreet, had tried to help me, but the humiliation of it all, the way people stared, nudged each other, tutted, almost as if they were relishing the entertainment, made me behave in a manner I couldn’t account for.

Slowly, deliberately, my hands shaking with resentment, I began to roll up the silk, making sure there were no folds in the cloth. Checking around me, I could see that all the other women and salesgirls had lost interest, no longer was I the centre of attention. Finally, closing my eyes for a second, I slipped my coat around the neatly rolled material. It was a little awkward to hold, as I was trying to make it appear as if the coat was hanging over my arm.

And then I walked out. Keeping that air of confidence and making myself breathe, I walked all the way through the fabrics hall but, just as I was being ushered out of the main entrance by one of the doormen, tipping his hat to me as I passed, just as I thought I’d made it, someone called after me.

‘Miss! Miss!’ My heart dropped to the floor as I turned, fully expecting some officious salesman to be chasing after the precious blue silk. I clung to my coat, awaiting my fate.

A gentleman, smartly dressed in a morning coat and top hat, held out one of my five-pound notes. He’d been running and was a little out of breath. ‘You dropped this. You mustn’t go without it.’ He had that boyish, slightly red-cheeked look of someone who spends time outdoors. His eyes were gleaming with his good deed. ‘Please, I believe this is yours.’

I searched his face for some hint of irony, some idea that he was laughing at me and was ready to show me up to the doorman, but I could see none. Confused, I took the note from him and haltingly said, ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’ He did a little bow, tipped his hat, and then winked at me before returning to the shop.

I walked out onto the street, bewildered and occasionally checking behind me, taking a deep breath to gather my wits. Eventually I crossed Princes Street, trying to walk slowly, nonchalantly, past the Scott Monument and down into the Princes Street Gardens. It must have been about five o’clock. The shops were beginning to shut, picnicking families were thinking about going home, but there were still couples walking, caught up in each other, using the fine weather to eke out a few extra minutes together.

Sweat was pooling under my arms. My heart was racing and I couldn’t bring it under control. I wanted to sit on one of the benches, to calm down, to watch the front entrance of Jenners, to see if policemen might be rushing in, rushing out, running after me, into the park, brandishing their truncheons, shouting and blowing their whistles. But I had to keep going, walking fast, urgently, fearful of someone seeing through me, recognising me for the thief that I was. Over Waverley Bridge, up Cockburn Street, not even glancing at Crawford’s, wishing I could turn back and return the precious fabric. My hands became clammy and the roll of material was slipping out of its disguise. I had to stop and re-wrap it, worried my sticky hands would mark the silk.

‘Watch where you’re going, you fool!’ a man shouted, just managing to avoid me where I’d stopped. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself. I was sick, sick to death, of being seen as a dirty, grubby, stupid girl, who had no agency. This fabric was going to help me move on. This beautiful fabric and the implausible roll of money sitting in my pocket.

I smoothed my coat down and made myself walk slower, turned myself into just another person strolling along the street, emptying my mind of my thievery, until I reached Richmond Place. Here I willed myself into the good Maisie, the Maisie who helped her sister, who looked after her sweet girls, who didn’t steal.

Just as the one hundred and fifty pounds became an oppressive weight in my pocket, the task of concealing the stolen silk became an all-consuming burden. Keeping a bolt of fabric hidden in a small tenement apartment, one that shimmers and almost irradiates colours that are rarely seen in such a place, is a task that cannot be underestimated. Colour is one of the differences in the rungs of society: grey, beige, brown, forest green, these are the colours at the bottom, the colours that sit comfortably with the sticky mud that the ladder sits in. As you rise up that ladder the colours become livelier and brighter: lawn green, sky blue, ruby red, sun yellow, fuchsia pink; these are colours for the privileged, these are colours that signify that you’ve landed in a world of extravagant dresses and comfortable beds. When those bright colours are spotted amongst the greys and the browns, they stand out, they tell the onlooker that something is amiss. I had to keep that iridescent fabric well hidden, away from inquisitive nieces who would do their best to find what should not be found. I wrapped the fabric in some leftover ticking and pushed it to the back of the small cupboard close to my bedroll, hiding it amongst other leftover materials, waiting for the time when it could be used.

Keeping both money and cloth hidden had me continually on edge. When I was at the laundry, I’d spend every moment worrying that Netta would discover the fabric as she looked for a needle to darn her socks, or I’d be unnecessarily concerned that the other girls I worked with would find the roll of five-pound notes hidden in my skirt pocket. At night I’d lie, unable to sleep, going through every possible way of solving the situation I found myself in: give all the money to Netta and throw away the fabric, give myself up to the police and go to prison, keep the money and fabric and leave.

After five days of little sleep and my mind caught in a never-ending whirl, the solution presented itself to me.

With supper over, I wanted to set about finishing the mourning gown that had been making, the last of her commissions.

‘Netta, could you not keep the bairns in the other room whilst I finish this? Is it not their bed time?’

She sighed loudly. ‘Cannae we just have one night where we don’t have tae tiptoe around the sewing? Cannae we just sit, maebe play a wee game o’ cards and mend our clothes, just like we used tae? We’d play Snap, ’d darn, we’d argue, she’d tell us off. Ava and Carla, always having tae be clean and quiet. It’s not the way bairns should be.’ Her voice was sharp, her dark eyes narrowed in irritation.

‘I have tae finish this. It’s promised tae Mrs Foster tomorrow.’

‘I’m sick o’ that sewing machine, I’m sick o’ the noise it makes, the space it takes up. I’m sick of treating those dresses better’n we treat the girls. Could you not be doing it later? When everyone’s in bed?’

There was little left to do to the dress – sew the hem, add lace to the cuffs and some discreet beading on the collar – mostly hand work, but sewing black fabric by gaslight is difficult, the details disappearing in the shadows. I had good eyesight, but even this kind of work was testing to already tired eyes. It was early evening and there was still some good light to work by. I wanted to make the most of it.

But before I could argue, Netta said, ‘Anyways, we have something tae tell you.’ She turned to her husband. I couldn’t quite work out the look on her face: pride, exhaustion, sadness, and happiness all rolled together. Duncan came over and sat down beside her.

‘I’m in the family way again,’ Netta announced, her chest puffed up and her chin jutting out like a proud bird who had outdone me, but there was a tone of despondency that she couldn’t hide. Duncan, with his wide, helpless features, looked at the floor.

My heart sank. Another screaming baby, more washing, less space, more of my time taken entertaining the other bairns. The walls of the room again moved closer to me, the air thickening. But just as I’d recollected myself enough to be happy, exclaim my surprise and heartfelt delight, there was a knock at the door.

‘A note for Miss Maisie McIntyre,’ Netta taunted in a singsong voice as she shut the door, and before I could reach for it, she’d opened it and had begun to read. She shook her head, tutted, and whistled before waving it in front of me.

‘Mrs Foster. Full payment for the mourning dress, but she’ll nae have it. She’ll not wear a dress made by a dead woman. Nae sewing to do,’ she crowed with a sardonic grin on her face as she slapped the letter down on the table in front of me. ‘She disnae know that didnae make that dress. So what. Paid is paid.’ She pocketed the coins that had come with the letter.

An unwanted mourning dress, a roll of five-pound notes, a sister who couldn’t see the opportunity, another baby and a stolen bolt of luxurious silk in need of a rich client. These things were set out in front of me, and, slowly, that evening as I lay on my bedroll, the skeleton of a plan began to form in my head.